


Lost in Admiration

by wherenearheisenberg



Category: El Filibusterismo, Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Alternate Universe - Philippine Literature, Dialogue Mashup, F/M, Philippine Literature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherenearheisenberg/pseuds/wherenearheisenberg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noli Me Tangere AU: Where Crisostomo falls for someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in Admiration

**Author's Note:**

> Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo are works of Jose Rizal, the Philippine National Hero. All characters except my OC Cressida belong to him. Wrote this for a personal challenge of a Crisostomo Ibarra/OC story. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is for reading purposes only. The scenes in this fanfiction were based on the novels but are modified to fit the story in AU.

“..and I planted flowers on his grave, sir. Nerium, jasmine, pansy, sir. I even made a huge cross for it. Don Santiago told me he'll take care of Don Ibarra's grave. I handed the care over, but I couldn't resist. Don Ibarra did me good all these years. T'is the only way I ought to repay him.”

Walking down the patches of grass, Crisostomo looked determined to find his late father's grave. After finding out what happened to him and how he died, he simply could not wait to visit him. _'Seven years and this is how I'll see him.'_ Crisostomo ruefully thought.

He let his mind wander on lots of other things as he and his old butler walk rather aimlessly around the barren land San Diego calls a cemetery. The ground is of dead soil, the trees were stripped of their luscious leaves, and the whole place was a heartbreaking picture of reality. Despite this, Crisostomo doesn't know where to start. His father left him a vast fortune, and even before then, their dreams of using it to help their fellow Indios-he despised that word-have better knowledge of the situation they live in was vividly clear in their minds. But now, Don Rafael Ibarra was gone and their dream desperately wants to shatter in his poor son's heart, teetering the line between vengeance and recluse.

The gravedigger told them about how a “Father Garote” told him to dig up Don Ibarra's grave and bring him to the cemetery of the Chinese, where he would be humiliated even in memory. This, however, was not executed properly as the heavy rain and the weight of the carcass prevented him in doing so. In his last resort, he let the body get washed away in the river and sink to the bottom. Crisostomo almost crushed the gravedigger for his stupidity.

“No!” came a voice Crisostomo had not expected. It was a woman's. He looked over at her direction and he saw a young woman his age, eyes wide in alarm and arms on either of her side like a born defender. “Let him go.”

 "M'lady, do you know what this man did to my poor father as he breathed no more? How he let my father go away with the water, unbeknownst to me, his lonesome son?” he said, almost seethingly. The woman flinched a little.

“I do know, good sir. That man you'e holding with his collar is my father. He raised me well and good, and taught me to be good. Haven't you heard? He was under orders. Orders of the most powerful man in the San Diego. How could my father say no, when we're just a poor family with a single dime a day? Your father was a good man, better, even. I met him when I was 15. Said he were here for your mother. We talked a lot, and I learned a lot from him. He even mentioned you a couple of times. He said you were his precious gem and he dearly missed you.” Crisostomo instinctively loosened his grip on the the gravedigger's shirt.

She continued, “You were kind and polite, he said. You were fair and just, and you share his beliefs. You are merciful to those below you, and I want to understand him. I could not do so while you hold my father like that. Like he was the one who killed him when we were to be killed had we not done the orders of Father Garote.”

Crisostomo looks down and swallows hard at the girl's words. He let go of the man he's holding, and briskly stalks off another way, and the fidgety old butler follows him feeling sorry for the gravedigger and his daughter.

Crisostomo almost punched Father Salvi, but he realized that Father Garote was actually Father Damaso. He flared inside at the now-obvious betrayal of his father's old friend.

As Crisostomo stands atop a low hill, overlooking much of the town, he talks to a schoolteacher with regards to the problems of San Diego's education system. Crisostomo yearned to change this. It was his and his father's dream. Instead of focusing on revenge, he wanted to focus on being the better man. Better than all the people who wronged him and his family.

He remembered how the lady used his father's words to describe him. He didn't want to fail her. He wanted her to understand his father, in the least.

* * *

 

“How much have you got, Cressida?”

“Not much yet, Elias.”

“You ought to add those. The kapitan won't like it if his workers won't give him what he deems enough.”

Cressida sighed, “I know, Elias. I am working just as hard as the others. It is just not enough.”

Elias smiled despite the heat. “T'is because you are meant for tea parties and not grueling work. Your kind is for the kind of Lady Maria Clara.”

Cressida scoffed with a laugh, “Like that would happen, Elias. Lady Clara and I are vastly different people.” she said while walking towards the part of the field with more crops, Elias trailing behind her as they talk.

“Oi, but you look the same.” Cressida could only laugh at his endless jests. “And I'm not kidding.”

Cressida smiled and stood to stretch her cramping limbs and spine. Working in the field was never easy. “D'you really think there's hope for us, though?”

Elias stopped cutting the tall crops to look at her. “Of course, Cressida. There is hope for us. I bet you'll be fairer than Lady Clara when you get out of these fields. You'll be hosting lovely parties inside your big house with all of your and your rich husband's friends. The frias will be there, too. Father Salvi will regret that he became a friar when he sees how happy and beautiful you are in your life.”

Smiling appreciatively, Cressida asked Elias. “And what of you, Elias?”

“Oh, I am contented working in the fields. I will fulfill my lifelong vow and I'll be happy to settle and go on with my life.”

“What are your vows, then? To avenge your ancestors?”

“Of course.”

“Elias!” Cressida couldn't believe what she heard. After theses years he still hadn't forgot.

“I need to do it, Cressida. Retribution is the only way I could move on peacefully.” Elias said, his lips settling on a straight, unemotional pose.

“Why must your heart be full of hatred?”

“T'is what time and betrayal did to me.”

* * *

 

Crisostomo was on his way out of the Church, stopping only for a moment when he spotted the familiar face of the gravedigger's daughter praying to the patron San Diego de Alcala. This time, she had her eyes closed, and the crinkles of her eyes were not caused by defiance, but by deep reverence. She was kneeling on a long bench with a cushion underneath, as to not hurt the knees of those who kneel. Crisostomo kneeled a good three feet beside her.

Feeling a weight rest upon the same cushion, Cressida opened one eye to see the other person, and was surpirsed to see the young Ibarra, dressed handsomely as always, looking directly at the image of San Diego de Alcala then to her when he felt her eyes on him.

“Good day, M'lady. I regret that we haven't had the chance to properly meet after our last encounter, which I apologize. I-”

“You are Crisostomo Ibarra and you are sorry. Am I right?” She smiled at his foolishness. Don Ibarra once mentioned to her that whenever his son would make a mistake, he would be babbling his apologies while still trying to look proper. Crisostomo closed his mouth like how a fish would, and nodded. “I am Cressida Sievra," she introduced herself. He proceeded to reach for her hand to kiss but she grabbed his first and shook it before he could try to kiss hers. At this, Crisostomo looked puzzled and looked at her with confusion.

It was unusual for a woman not to take a kiss from the hand, but Crisostomo felt a tad bit comfortable at her oddity.

The bell tolled, and the two broke their hands suddenly. Cressida looked at the running sakristans, and stood up, taking her basket full of fruits with her. Crisostomo did the same, and he dusted himself off.

“Oh, I've got laundry to do! It was nice meeting you, though, Sir Ibarra. Have a pleasant day!” she hastily said as she ran outside the church with the hem of her lanky dress trailing lazily behind her lithe form, leaving Crisostomo looking at her with more reverence than at the image beside him.

* * *

 

The bills keep getting higher, and after 21 years, it is quite suspicious for the prices of commodities to go up. Some people say it originated from disputes on the end of the elites.

Cressida ought to find a new job, a better-paying at that. She was counting their pences left when she heard a pained scream from her father.

When she reached the other room, she found her father lying down the cot, sweating profusely and howling in pain. Life was slowly draining out of him as Cressida bursted into tears and screams.

_Keep digging, keep digging, keep digging..._

The rain poured hard that night, but the lonely woman endured the large droplets pricking her skin as she dug a deep hole under the ground. Years of going along with her father's work taught her the right depth of a grave for it not to smell. Her eyes blurred, and she didn't know which one's the cause; the rain or her tears.

She didn't know when she stopped digging, and she forgot where she was after she buried her father beside their home.

* * *

 

Crisostomo was rounding San Diego as part of the project he was currently working on. He wanted to census the Filipino children who are not going to school so his assistants could put them on their priority list. She thought of Cressida upon reaching the place near the cemetery, and he thought of giving her and her father some fruits to add to their table. He personally purchased apples and berries, placed them in a wide basket and headed to their home, together with his old butler to bring some of the other purchases.

Turning the corner where she lived, he found her lying on the dirt, her whole body damp, as if she slept under the rain. Her face and clothes were dirty as if she rolled on a pig pen. Beside her was a shovel and a handful of daisies that Crisostomo recognized from one of the plants beside their porch.

Crisostomo immediately placed the basket he was holding on the dry ground, and rushed to her side. He held her head and wiped the dirt from her face. He asked his butler to help him bring her inside her home.

Crisostomo stayed with her, and only when she woke up did she felt the impact of her father's death that punched her gut and brought tears to her eyes.

He held her like how his father held him while he cried over her mother's death. Crisostomo was never fond of that memory, but it resurfaced in his consciousness that he could not help but weep with her, taking in all the bitterness in her heart. He caught her sorrow with ease, because he had been in her place once.

* * *

 

Cressida was dusting off the cabinets in the Ibarra household. She was offered a job by the young Ibarra upon learning of her father's death, insisting that he couldn't let her live alone.

“ _I assure you, I will be fine here by myself. I grew up here, this is my home.”_

“ _But I would hate seeing you here all alone. You wouldn't be able to take care of yourself properly.”_

“ _I have friends, Sir Crisostomo. I wouldn't be that alone. Don't worry about me.”_

“ _You could live in my house.”_

“ _What? No! Of course not, Sir Ibarra. I wouldn't want to cause you any bother.”_

“ _Oh, you wouldn't be! You could work there, and I'll provide you food, shelter, and the company of myself and the other people who work there. There are quite a lot of people working here now.”_

“ _Oh? How so?”_

“ _I'm currently working on a project. Educational.” Cressida smiled. It does sound good. Admiration surged through her and she felf herself blush despite the cold. She was feeling no better than last night, but she was proud of him and with the way he chose to handle things. “I intend to use my father's fortune to build school for Indios like us. So they wouldn't be dead followers of our degenerade society. I'll need you there.”_

“ _You cannot possibly.”_

“ _I could.”_

“ _Why do you care about me so much?”_

“ _I care about everyone.”_

“ _Really.”_

“ _It's true. You just seem to mind it more than others. It's why you must think it's overdone.”_

_She scoffed playfully. “Oh, I do not.”_

_Crisostomo Ibarra laughed. “Yes, m'lady, you do.”_

“ _Are you always this cocky?” she playfully asked._

“ _Only to certain people.” he answered with a smile._

“ _What kind?” she got a bit too confident and slightly leaned toward him._

_Crisostomo leaned in as well, daring. “The beautiful ones.”_

_At this, Cressida freely laughed. “Of course! Of course! Your charm is impeccable, I must say. You probably learned that from your trips in the West.”_

_Crisostomo shruggged good-naturedly. “It's been too long since I last used it.”_

“ _Worry not. It's still intact.”_

“ _Did it work on you, then?” He asked. She knew it was about her working for him. His eyes were hopeful, sinfully close to hers. And she couldn't say no._

_She sighed and that was it._

That's how she came about working for the Ibarra heir. Her shift was in the morning, at most. This gave her time to rest in the evening. Everything was good. The people were nice, and she even managed to befriend everyone. The food and shelter were exquisite, of course. The young Don would throw parties in his home, and the household would be bustling with preparations two days before. Like this one particular evening, Crisostomo had his friends over for supper. It was a relatively small gathering, smaller than any of the others. An intimate gathering that comprises Don Santiago, his daughter the Lady Maria Clara, her aunt Lady Isabel, Lieutentant Guevarra, and the Wise Man Tasyo. Everything went smoothly. The servers came and went in the kitchen, serving the most delicious dishes the Ibarra household could offer.

"Everything in here is exquisite, Don Ibarra. Even your suit is perfection." Don Santiago applauded, his eyes fond. Everyone shared a laugh.

"A handsome suit for a handsome man." Don Tasyo mused. Maria Clara flushed, appreciating it all herself.

"I might get one for myself, yes? Where is it from, Crisostomo?" the Lieutenant said.

"Thank you, gentlemen. I'm afraid I'm too humble to affirm. Nevertheless, it is from one of father's good friends who owns a haberdashery in London. I'll be sure to give you his address there," Crisostomo said, a gracious smile on his lips. "Oh, dessert is here." He added, and stood from his chair as he caught sight of his servers shuffling out of the kitchen. Hums of delight filled the table. 

Cressida was there as well, refilling the wine glasses. When she went to fill Crisostomo's glass, she smelled a whiff of his perfume. He smelled glorious, and turned to look at his dashing demeanour. Too close, she thinks. But the coquettish grin(she tried not describing it that way) he had made her feel like it was alright to be that close.

Cressida looked at everyone at the table for a moment, realizing that no one noticed the encounter with Crisostomo. All were busy with their sweets. She kept her face straight the whole time, like she was not affected at all, like she doesn't know the young gentleman more than necessary.

It wasn't until she saw Wise Man Tasyo looking directly at her, a twinkle in his eyes.

Crisostomo was a good host, so to speak. He always tended to the things that were needing attention. He was the master of the house and was managing fairly well even without his deceased father. Crisostomo once told Cressida that he wanted to relish the memories of his father by maintaining the estate he left behind.

“ _The lawn is always manicured. The houses are always kept clean. Lights glow in every corner of the house. I make sure I keep the house just like how I remembered it in my childhood.”Crisostomo murmured as he stood on the terrace overlooking the streets._

_Cressida was watering the potted plants on the side of the terrace doors. They were large, bamboo plants that keep the morning flies away. The potted plants stood tall, guarding the sky behind them. Cressida liked to think that they symbolize something. She wasn't sure how, but she loved taking care of them nonetheless._

“ _You're doing a good job at it, Sir Ibarra.” she said as she wiped the side of the ceramic pots._

_Crisostomo sighed. “How many times must I remind you not to call me Sir Ibarra, Don, or anything formal? As far as I can determine, we already passed that point of formalities.”_

_The cleaning lady raised an eyebrow and answered playfully. “Not to my knowledge.”_

_Turning aroiund, Crisostomo walked towards Cressida and crouched beside her, examining the bamboo plants.“Beautiful, aren't they?”_

“ _Oh, yes. I remember Wise Man Tasyo praise their beauty and sturdiness.”_

“ _All thanks to the one who tends to them. I reckon tending to them is a difficult task.”_

_Cressida narrowed her eyes at Ibarra's sparkling ones. “Are you patronizing me, Crisostomo? Well, they're not that hard to take care of. They are pliant ones, you see. Goes with the wind.”_

“ _Aren't you the connoisseur of bamboos!” Crisostomo openly laughed this time. This brought a smile to Cressida's lips._

“ _I might be. But I used to think that we Indios are like that. We're like bamboos swaying with the trashes of wind. And we're just as pliant. Bowing to everyone as if our lives depended on it. It's just that we bow so low that we're always on the brink of breaking.”_

“ _What happened now? If I may ask.” Crisostomo inquired._

“ _People are coming together now, Crisostomo. The imbeciles we see are not that imbecilic anymore. I can feel something is going to happen. Something terrible. I just don't know which side the odds will take. I hope it takes ours.” Crisostomo can only stare at the woman speaking before him. Cressida continued, “It could only mean danger, but what have we got to lose? The revolution is inevitable now. My father taught me that the people meant to rise can only go too low.”_

“ _What brought about this, Cressida?” Crisostomo asked, as if oblivious to accusations. Cressida knew better. She shrugged, albeit knowingly._

_Crisostomo steadily stood and walked away, leaving Cressida watch a little bamboo sprout from the ground._

* * *

 

They often shared tea in the evening. They would take turns in brewing the leaves of various flavors. And, when everyone in the household were soundly sleeping, Crisostomo would let Cressida wander the depths of his study. He lets her mind free inside his personal library.

With a cup in one hand, Cressida would take several books from the shelf and scan the contents. Sometimes, when she liked the book, she would borrow it a return it precisely three day after.

As she read while sitting on the soft couch of Crisostomo's study, she heard the soft tunes of the violin. It was a sad song, and it brought an ache in her heart. She turned around and saw Ibarra playing the violin with solemn eyes. It's as if the music conveyed his thoughts and emotions. If that was the case, then he's saying something very heartbreaking.

Cressida chose to ignore him and go back to her reading, despite not actually being able to go back to it, as she lost the page she was on. A few minutes passed, and the music stopped. Ibarra's voice soon followed.

“She's getting married to Linares. Don Santiago broke off the engagement before I could even had the chance to blink before him.”

His voice sound defeated, and Cressida couldn't help but sigh for the poor man's heart. She placed the book on the table and stood, walking towards the dark silhouette of Crisostomo. She tapped his shoulder and felt her heart beat faster when she saw his face this close once more.

“Isn't there any other way? Is she gone forever?”

Crisostomo's face showed thousands of unspoken emotion in less than a second, and his misery was evident. Cressida threw all her personal sentiments for a short while, telling herself to be sensitive and selfless at this time, for Crisostomo was a man meant to be happy, and Cressida felt that making him so could be the purpose of her life.

She didn't even know precisely what she felt about him. She chose to stay away from things that would never be. Months back, she selfishly hoped the unthinkable. That Crisostomo and Lady Clara would find themselves out of love, and Crisostomo would see her. But now, as she looks at his tired, sad eyes, she desperately wished to bring it all back. She didn't care whether it'll cost her much. As long as he is happy and contented, then nothing is ever difficult to learn. _Funny,_ she thinks to herself. _People like them live so large and leave so little, but now I am standing here, prepared to give anything just to bring back the twinkle in his eyes._

"Maria Clara is no longer mine. I think we lost each other, including our hearts." 

And so she let him weep for his lost love. She let him break down before her. She let him trust her more than anything, and she let him kiss her to forget the pain. She made sure he slept soundly that night.

And she made sure to never see him again after that.

* * *

 

_He ran until his feet gave out. Searched until his eyes threatened themselves to cry._

_He was so sure he needed to find her._

* * *

 

Maria Clara's last words were “Crisostomo” and “love”. That's what the people at the convent told him.

Simoun rested his good hand on the table in front of him as he thought of a distant memory. Memories. They were quite many, but he only chose a few to dwell upon.

He sees a bamboo plant on the terrace of Father Florentino's house, and a weight heavily falls upon his stomach. 

* * *

 

“Let me see him.” a woman's voice demanded. It's through which, he thought, was how that woman is holding him now, checking his pulse and carressing his pale face.

“Oh, Crisostomo...” she makes a wounded cry, and Crisostomo thinks he might die sooner.

“Cressida,” his voice becomes instinctively gentler. Gentler than it were 13 years back. “Where have you been?” he asks. It won't matter anyhow, but he needed to ask.

“I'm so sorry. I was so afraid and anxious of what awaits me in the morning. I am so sorry, Crisostomo,” she cries, tears freely flowing down her porcelain skin. How stupid of her to leave something that made her feel truly alive.

“I would-” he coughed, “I would've kissed you again in the morning.” He coughs again, harder this time. The poison is slowly taking the life out of him. Cressida wounded herself closer to him as she sobbed her heart out. 13 years later and she was still ruined. Ruined for anyone else but him.

She rests her forehead against his, feeling the coldness overtake him. Somehow, she's still trying to give him warmth. She mouths the words and kisses him again, not minding the poison in his mouth.

When she pulls away, Simoun felt like Crisostomo once more. He realized that he would be happy to die this way. Happy to die with the only good thing in his life with him. It was terribly selfish, but he lets himself be selfish as he gave his heart to one. He held her hands, gripped them tight and mouthed back the words she uttered.

“Promise me, Cressida.”

Cressida's eyes were hazy because of the tears clouding her vision. But she nods, and all the worries on Crisostomo's face vanished and was replaced with a genuine smile. She wished to save him so badly, but she knew the time has come.

Crisostomo's hands lost their grip, and he was gone.

* * *

 

 She watched as the ocean swallowed the sparkling jewels that once belonged to a man who was the world.


End file.
